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in Russia. The consequences of this tyranny of an uneducated middle class anda barbarian aristocracy are shown in detail in the trial of Oscar Wilde and inthe savagery with which he was treated by the English officers of justice.

CHAPTER XV--THE QUEEN VS. WILDE: THE FIRST TRIAL

As soon as I heard that Oscar Wilde was arrested and bail refused, I tried toget permission to visit him in Holloway. I was told I should have to see himin a kind of barred cage; and talk to him from the distance of at least a yard.It seemed to me too painful for both of us, so I went to the higher authoritiesand got permission to see him in a private room. The Governor met me at theentrance of the prison: to my surprise he was more than courteous; charminglykind and sympathetic.

"We all hope," he said, "that he will soon be free; this is no place for him.Everyone likes him, everyone. It is a great pity."

He evidently felt much more than he said, and my heart went out to him. He leftme in a bare room furnished with a small square deal table and two kitchenchairs. In a moment or two Oscar came in accompanied by a warder. In silencewe clasped hands. He looked miserably anxious and pulled down and I felt thatI had nothing to do but cheer him up.

"I am glad to see you," I cried. "I hope the warders are kind to you?"

"Yes, Frank," he replied in a hopeless way, "but everyone else is against me:it is hard."

"Don't harbour that thought," I answered; "many whom you don't know, and whomyou will never know, are on your side. Stand for them and for the myriads whoare coming afterwards and make a fight of it."

"I'm afraid I'm not a fighter, Frank, as you once said," he replied sadly, "and they won't give me bail. How can I get evidence or think in this placeof torture? Fancy refusing me bail," he went on, "though I stayed in Londonwhen I might have gone abroad."

"You should have gone," I cried in French, hot with indignation; "why didn't yougo, the moment you came out of the court?"

"I couldn't think at first," he answered in the same tongue; "I couldn't thinkat all: I was numbed."

"Your friends should have thought of it," I insisted, not knowing then thatthey had done their best.

At this moment the warder, who had turned away towards the door, came back.

"You are not allowed, sir, to talk in a foreign language," he said quietly."You will understand we have to obey the rules. Besides, the prisoner must notspeak of this prison as a place of torture. I ought to report that; I'm sorry."

The misery of it all brought tears to my eyes: his gaolers even felt sorry forhim. I thanked the warder and turned again to Oscar.

"Don't let yourself fear at all," I exclaimed. "You will have your chance againand must take it; only don't lose heart and don't be witty next time in court.The jury hate it. They regard it as intellectual superiority and impudence.Treat all things seriously and with grave dignity. Defend yourself as Davidwould have defended his love for Jonathan. Make them all listen to you. Iwould undertake to get free with half your talent even if I were guilty; aresolution not to be beaten is always half the battle. . . . . Make your trialmemorable from your entrance into the court to the decision of the jury. Useevery opportunity and give your real character a chance to fight for you."

I spoke with tears in my eyes and rage in my heart.

"I will do my best, Frank," he said despondingly, "I will do my best. If I wereout of this place, I might think of something, but it is dreadful to be here.One has to go to bed by daylight and the nights are interminable."

"Haven't you a watch?" I cried.

They don't allow you to have a watch in prison," he replied.

"But why not?" I asked in amazement. I did not know that every rule in anEnglish prison is cunningly devised to annoy and degrade the unfortunateprisoner.

Oscar lifted his hands hopelessly:

"One may not smoke; not even a cigarette; and so I cannot sleep. All the pastcomes back; the golden hours; the June days in London with the sunshine dapplingthe grass and the silken rustling of the wind in the trees. Do you rememberWordsworth speaks 'of the wind in the trees'? How I wish I could hear it now,breathe it once again. I might get strength then to fight."

"Is the food good?" I asked.

"It's all right; I get it from outside. The food doesn't matter. It is thesmoking I miss, the freedom, the companionship. My mind will not act when I'malone. I can only think of what has been and torment myself. Already I've beenpunished enough for the sins of a lifetime."

"Is there nothing I can do for you, nothing you want?" I asked.

"No, Frank," he answered, "it was kind of you to come to see me, I wish I couldtell you how kind."

"Don't think of it," I said; "if I'm any good send for me at any moment: a wordwill bring me. They allow you books, don't they?"

"Yes, Frank."

"I wish you would get the 'Apologia of Plato'," I said, "and take a big draughtof that deathless smiling courage of Socrates."

"Ah, Frank, how much more humane were the Greeks. They let his friends see himand talk to him by the hour, though he was condemned to death. There were nowarders there to listen, no degrading conditions."

"Quite true," I cried, suddenly realising how much better Oscar Wilde would havebeen treated in Athens two thousand years ago. "Our progress is mainly change;we don't shed our cruelty; even Christ has not been able to humanise us."

He nodded his head. At first he seemed greatly distressed; but I managed toencourage him a little, for at the close of the talk he questioned me:

"Do you really think I may win, Frank?"

"Of course you'll win," I replied. "You must win: you must not think of beingbeaten. Take it that they will not want to convict you. Say it to yourselfin the court; don't let yourself fear for a moment. Your enemies are merelystupid, unhappy creatures crawling about for a few miserable years between earthand sun; fated to die and leave no trace, no memory. Remember you are fightingfor all of us, for every artist and thinker who is to be born into the Englishworld. . . . . It is better to win like Galileo than to be burnt like GiordanoBruno. Don't let them make another martyr. Use all your brains and eloquenceand charm. Don't be afraid. They will not condemn you if they know you."

"I have been trying to think," he said, "trying to make up my mind to bearone whole year of this life. It's dreadful, Frank, I had no idea that prisonwas so dreadful."

The warder again drew down his brows. I hastened to change the subject.

"That's why you must resolve not to have any more of it," I said; "I wish I hadseen you when you came out of court, but I really thought you didn't want me;you turned away from me."

"Oh, Frank, how could I?" he cried. "I should have been so grateful to you."

"I'm very shortsighted," I rejoined, "and I thought you did. It is our foolishlittle vanities which prevent us acting as we should. But let me know if I cando anything for you. If you want me, I'll come at any moment."

I said this because the warder had already given me a sign; he now said:

"Time is up."

Once again we clasped hands.

"You must win," I said; "don't think of defeat. Even your enemies are human.Convert them. You can do it, believe me," and I went with dread in my heart,and pity and indignation.

Be still, be still, my soul; it is but for a season:Let us endure an hour and see injustice done.

The Governor met me almost at the door.

"It is terrible," I exclaimed.

"This is no place for him," he answered. "He has nothing to do with us here.Everyone likes him and pities him: the warders, everyone. Anything I can doto make his stay tolerable shall be done."

We shook hands. I think there were tears in both our eyes as we parted.This humane Governor had taught me that Oscar's gentleness and kindness--hissweetness of nature--would win all hearts if it had time to make itself known.Yet there he was in prison. His face and figure came before me again and again:the unshaven face; the frightened, sad air; the hopeless, toneless voice. Thecleanliness even of the bare hard room was ugly; the English are foolish enoughto degrade those they punish. Revolt was blazing in me.

As I went away I looked up at the mediaeval castellated gateway of the place,and thought how perfectly the architecture suited the spirit of the institution.The whole thing belongs to the middle ages, and not to our modern life. Fancyhaving both prison and hospital side by side; indeed a hospital even in theprison; torture and lovingkindness; punishment and pity under the same roof.What a blank contradiction and stupidity. Will civilisation never reach humaneideals? Will men always punish most severely the sins they do not understand andwhich hold for them no temptation? Did Jesus suffer in vain?

. . . . . . .

Oscar Wilde was committed on the 19th of April; a "true bill" was found againsthim by the grand jury on the 24th; and, as the case was put down for trial atthe Old Bailey almost immediately, a postponement was asked for till the Maysessions, on the ground first that the defence had not had time to prepare theircase and further, that in the state of popular feeling at the moment, Mr. Wildewould not get a fair and impartial trial. Mr. Justice Charles, who was to trythe case, heard the application and refused it peremptorily: "Any suggestionthat the defendant would not have a fair trial was groundless," he declared; yethe knew better. In his summing up of the case on May 1st he stated that "forweeks it had been impossible to open a newspaper without reading some referenceto the case," and when he asked the jury not to allow "preconceived opinions toweigh with them" he was admitting the truth that every newspaper reference wascharged with dislike and contempt of Oscar Wilde. A fair trial indeed!

The trial took place at the Old Bailey, three days later, April 27th, 1895,before Mr. Justice Charles. Mr. C. F. Gill and A. Gill with Mr. Horace Avoryappeared for the Public Prosecutor. Mr. Wilde was again defended by Sir EdwardClarke, Mr. Charles Mathews and Mr. Travers Humphreys, while Mr. J. P. Grainand Mr. Paul Taylor were counsel for the other prisoner. The trial began on aSaturday and the whole of the day was taken up with a legal argument. I am notgoing to give the details of the case. I shall only note the chief features ofit and the unfairness which characterised it.

Sir Edward Clarke pointed out that there was one set of charges under theCriminal Law Amendment Act and another set of charges of conspiracy. He urgedthat the charges of conspiracy should be dropped. Under the counts allegingconspiracy, the defendants could not be called on as witnesses, which putthe defence at a disadvantage. In the end the Judge decided that there wereinconveniences; but he would not accede to Sir Edward Clarke's request. Laterin the trial, however, Mr. Gill himself withdrew the charges of conspiracy,and the Judge admitted explicitly in his summing up that, if he had known theevidence which was to be offered, he would not have allowed these charges ofconspiracy to be made. By this confession he apparently cleared his consciencejust as Pilate washed his hands. But the wrong had already been done. Not onlydid this charge of conspiracy embarrass the defence, but if it had never beenmade, as it should never have been made, then Sir Edward Clarke would haveinsisted and could have insisted properly that the two men should be triedseparately, and Wilde would not have been discredited by being coupled withTaylor, whose character was notorious and who had already been in the hands ofthe police on a similar charge.

This was not the only instance of unfairness in the conduct of the prosecution.The Treasury put a youth called Atkins in the box, thus declaring him to be atleast a credible witness; but Atkins was proved by Sir Edward Clarke to haveperjured himself in the court in the most barefaced way. In fact the Treasurywitnesses against Wilde were all blackmailers and people of the lowestcharacter, with two exceptions. The exceptions were a boy named Mavor and ayouth named Shelley. With regard to Mavor the judge admitted that no evidencehad been offered that he could place before the jury; but in his summing up hewas greatly affected by the evidence of Shelley. Shelley was a young man whoseemed to be afflicted with a species of religious mania. Mr. Justice Charlesgave great weight to his testimony. He invited the jury to say that "althoughthere was, in his correspondence which had been read, evidence of excitability,to talk of him as a young man who did not know what he was saying was toexaggerate the effect of his letters." He went on to ask with much solemnity:"Why should this young man have invented a tale, which must have been unpleasantto him to present from the witness box?"

In the later trial before Mr. Justice Wills the Judge had to rule out theevidence of Shelley "in toto", because it was wholly without corroboration.If the case before Mr. Justice Charles had not been confused with the chargesof conspiracy, there is no doubt that he too would have ruled out the evidenceof Shelley, and then his summing up must have been entirely in favour of Wilde.

The singular malevolence of the prosecution also can be estimated by their useof the so-called "literary argument." Wilde had written in a magazine called"The Chameleon. The Chameleon" contained an immoral story, with which Wilde hadnothing to do, and which he had repudiated as offensive. Yet the prosecutiontried to make him responsible in some way for the immorality of a writing whichhe knew nothing about.

Wilde had said two poems of Lord Alfred Douglas were "beautiful." Theprosecution declared that these poems were in essence a defence of the vilestimmorality, but is it not possible for the most passionate poem, even the mostvicious, to be "beautiful"? Nothing was ever written more passionate than oneof the poems of Sappho. Yet a fragment has been selected out and preserved bythe admiration of a hundred generations of men. The prosecution was in theposition all the time of one who declared that a man who praised a nude picturemust necessarily be immoral. Such a contention would be inconceivable in anyother civilised country. Even the Judge was on much the same intellectuallevel. It would not be fair, he admitted, to condemn a poet or dramatic writerby his works and he went on:

"It is unfortunately true that while some of our greatest writers have passedlong years in writing nothing but the most wholesome literature--literature ofthe highest genius, and which anybody can read, such as the literature of SirWalter Scott and Charles Dickens; it is also true that there were other greatwriters, more especially in the eighteenth century, perfectly noble-minded menthemselves, who somehow or other have permitted themselves to pen volumes whichit is painful for persons of ordinary modesty and decency to read."

It would have been more honest and more liberal to have brushed away thenonsensical indictment in a sentence. Would the Treasury have put Shakespeareon trial for "Hamlet" or "Lear," or would they have condemned the writer of"The Song of Solomon" for immorality, or sent St. Paul to prison for his"Epistle to the Corinthians"?

Middle-class prejudice and hypocritic canting twaddle from Judge and advocatedragged their weary length along for days and days. On Wednesday Sir EdwardClarke made his speech for the defence. He pointed out the unfairness of thecharges of conspiracy which had tardily been withdrawn. He went on to say thatthe most remarkable characteristic of the case was the fact that it had been theoccasion for conduct on the part of certain sections of the press which wasdisgraceful, and which imperilled the administration of justice, and was in thehighest degree injurious to the client for whom he was pleading. Nothing, heconcluded, could be more unfair than the way Mr. Wilde had been criticised inthe press for weeks and weeks. But no judge interfered on his behalf.

Sir Edward Clarke evidently thought that to prove unfairness would not eveninfluence the minds of the London jury. He was content to repudiate the attemptto judge Mr. Wilde by his books or by an article which he had condemned, or bypoems which he had not written. He laid stress on the fact that Mr. Wilde hadhimself brought the charge against Lord Queensberry which had provoked the wholeinvestigation: "on March 30th, Mr. Wilde," he said, "knew the catalogue ofaccusations"; and he asked: did the jury believe that, if he had been guilty,he would have stayed in England and brought about the first trial? Insane wouldhardly be the word for such conduct, if Mr. Wilde really had been guilty.Moreover, before even hearing the specific accusations, Mr. Wilde had goneinto the witness box to deny them.

Clarke's speech was a good one, but nothing out of the common: no new argumentswere used in it; not one striking illustration. Needless to say the higheradvocacy of sympathy was conspicuous by its absence.

Again, the interesting part of the trial was the cross-examination of OscarWilde.

Mr. Gill examined him at length on the two poems which Lord Alfred Douglas hadcontributed to "The Chameleon", which Mr. Wilde had called "beautiful." Thefirst was in "Praise of Shame," the second was one called "Two Loves." SirEdward Clarke, interposing, said:

"That's not Mr. Wilde's, Mr. Gill."

Mr. Gill: "I am not aware that I said it was."

Sir Edward Clarke: "I thought you would be glad to say it was not."

Mr. Gill insisted that Mr. Wilde should explain the poem in "Praise of Shame."

Mr. Wilde said that the first poem seemed obscure, but, when pressed as to the"love" described in the second poem, he let himself go for the first time andperhaps the only time during the trial; he said:

"The 'love' that dare not speak its name in this century is such a greataffection of an older for a younger man as there was between David and Jonathan,such as Plato made the very base of his philosophy and such as you find in thesonnets of Michaelangelo and Shakespeare--a deep spiritual affection that is aspure as it is perfect, and dictates great works of art like those of Shakespeareand Michaelangelo and those two letters of mine, such as they are, and which isin this century misunderstood--so misunderstood that on account of it, I amplaced where I am now. It is beautiful; it is fine; it is the noblest form ofaffection. It is intellectual, and it repeatedly exists between an elder andyounger man, when the elder man has intellect, and the younger man has all thejoy, hope and glamour of life. That it should be so the world does notunderstand. It mocks at it and sometimes puts one into the pillory for it."

At this stage there was loud applause in the gallery of the court, and thelearned Judge at once said: "I shall have the Court cleared if there is theslightest manifestation of feeling. There must be complete silence preserved."

Mr. Justice Charles repressed the cheering in favour of Mr. Oscar Wilde withgreat severity, though Mr. Justice Collins did not attempt to restrain thecheering which filled his court and accompanied the dispersing crowd into thestreet on the acquittal of Lord Queensberry.

In spite, however, of the unfair criticisms of the press; in spite of the unfairconduct of the prosecution, and in spite of the manifest prejudice andPhilistine ignorance of the Judge, the jury disagreed.

Then followed the most dramatic incident of the whole trial. Once more SirEdward Clarke applied for bail on behalf of Oscar Wilde. "After what hashappened," he said, "I do not think the Crown will make any objection to thisapplication." The Crown left the matter to the Judge, no doubt in all security;for the Judge immediately refused the application. Sir Edward Clarke thenwent on to say that, in the case of a re-trial, it ought not to take placeimmediately. He continued:

"The burden of those engaged in the case is very heavy, and I think it onlyright that the Treasury should have an opportunity between this and anothersession of considering the mode in which the case should be presented, if indeedit is presented at all."

Mr. Gill immediately rose to the challenge.

"The case will certainly be tried again," he declared, "whether it is to betried again at once or in the next sessions will be a matter of convenience.Probably the most desirable course will be for the case to go to the nextsessions. That is the usual course."

Mr. Justice Charles: "If that is the usual course, let it be so."

The next session of the Central Criminal Court opened on the 20th of the samemonth.

Not three weeks' respite, still it might be enough: it was inconceivable thata Judge in Chambers would refuse to accept bail: fortunately the law allows himno option.

. . . . .

The application for bail was made in due course to a Judge in Chambers, and inspite of the bad example of the magistrate, and of Mr. Justice Charles, it wasgranted and Wilde was set free in his own recognizance of L2,500 with two othersureties for L1,250 each. It spoke volumes for the charm and fascination of theman that people were found to undertake this onerous responsibility. Theirnames deserve to be recorded; one was Lord Douglas of Hawick, the other aclergyman, the Rev. Stewart Headlam. I offered to be one bail: but I was not ahouseholder at the time and my name was, therefore, not acceptable. I supposethe Treasury objected, which shows, I am inclined to think, some glimmering ofsense on its part.

As soon as the bail was accepted I began to think of preparations for Oscar'sescape. It was high time something was done to save him from the wolves. Theday after his release a London morning journal was not ashamed to publish whatit declared was a correct analysis of the voting of the jury on the variouscounts. According to this authority, ten jurors were generally for convictionand two against, in the case of Wilde; the statement was widely accepted becauseit added that the voting was more favourable to Taylor than to Wilde, which wasso unexpected and so senseless that it carried with it a certain plausibility:"Credo quia incredible".

I had seen enough of English justice and English judges and English journals toconvince me that Oscar Wilde had no more chance of a fair trial than if he hadbeen an Irish "Invincible." Everyone had made up his mind and would not evenlisten to reason: he was practically certain to be convicted, and if convictedperfectly certain to be punished with savage ferocity. The judge would probablythink he was showing impartiality by punishing him for his qualities of charmand high intelligence. For the first time in my life I understood the fullsignificance of Montaigne's confession that if he were accused of stealing thetowers of Notre Dame, he would fly the kingdom rather than risk a trial, andMontaigne was a lawyer. I set to work at once to complete my preparations.

I did not think I ran any risk in helping Oscar to get away. The newspapers hadseized the opportunity of the trials before the magistrate and before Mr.Justice Charles and had overwhelmed the public with such a sea of nauseous filthand impurity as could only be exposed to the public nostrils in pudibondEngland. Everyone, I thought, must be sick of the testimony and eager to havedone with the whole thing. In this I may have been mistaken. The hatred ofWilde seemed universal and extraordinarily malignant.

I wanted a steam yacht. Curiously enough on the very day when I was thinking ofrunning down to Cowes to hire one, a gentleman at lunch mentioned that he hadone in the Thames. I asked him could I charter it?

"Certainly," he replied, "and I will let you have it for the bare cost for thenext month or two."

"One month will do for me," I said.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

I don't know why, but a thought came into my head: I would tell him the truth,and see what he would say. I took him aside and told him the bare facts. Atonce he declared that the yacht was at my service for such work as that withoutmoney: he would be too glad to lend it to me: it was horrible that such a man asWilde should be treated as a common criminal.

He felt as Henry VIII felt in Shakespeare's play of that name:

". . . . there's some of ye, I see,More out of malice than integrity,Would try him to the utmost, . . . ."

It was not the generosity in my friend's offer that astonished me, but theconsideration for Wilde; I thought the lenity so singular in England that I feelcompelled to explain it. Though an Englishman born and bred my friend was byrace a Jew--a man of the widest culture, who had no sympathy whatever with thevice attributed to Oscar. Feeling consoled because there was at least onegenerous, kind heart in the world, I went next day to Willie Wilde's house inOakley Street to see Oscar. I had written to him on the previous evening thatI was coming to take Oscar out to lunch.

Willie Wilde met me at the door; he was much excited apparently by the notorietyattaching to Oscar; he was volubly eager to tell me that, though we had not beenfriends, yet my support of Oscar was most friendly and he would therefore burythe hatchet. He had never interested me, and I was unconscious of any hatchetand careless whether he buried it or blessed it. I repeated drily that I hadcome to take Oscar to lunch.

"I know you have," he said, "and it's most kind of you; but he can't go."

"Why not?" I asked as I went in.

Oscar was gloomy, depressed, and evidently suffering. Willie's theatricalinsincerity had annoyed me a little, and I was eager to get away. SuddenlyI saw Sherard, who has since done his best for Oscar's memory. In his bookthere is a record of this visit of mine. He was standing silently by the wall.

"I've come to take you to lunch," I said to Oscar.

"But he cannot go out," cried Willie.

"Of course he can," I insisted, "I've come to take him."

"But where to?" asked Willie.

"Yes, Frank, where to?" repeated Oscar meekly.

"Anywhere you like," I said, "the Savoy if you like, the Cafe Royal for choice."

"Oh, Frank, I dare not," cried Oscar.

"No, no," cried Willie, "there would be a scandal; someone'll insult him andit would do harm; set people's backs up."

"Oh, Frank, I dare not," echoed Oscar.

"No one will insult him. There will be no scandal," I replied, "and it willdo good."

"But what will people say?" cried Willie.

"No one ever knows what people will say," I retorted, "and people always speakbest of those who don't care a damn what they do say."

"Oh, Frank, I could not go to a place like the Savoy where I am well known,"objected Oscar.

"All right," I agreed, "you shall go where you like. All London is before us.I must have a talk with you, and it will do you good to get out into the air,and sun yourself and feel the wind in your face. Come, there's a hansom atthe door."

It was not long before I had conquered his objections and Willie's absurditiesand taken him with me. Scarcely had we left the house when his spirits beganto lift, and he rippled into laughter.

"Really, Frank, it is strange, but I do not feel frightened and depressed anymore, and the people don't boo and hiss at me. Is it not dreadful the way theyinsult the fallen?"

"We are not going to talk about it," I said; "we are going to talk of victoriesand not of defeats."

"Ah, Frank, there will be no more victories for me."

"Nonsense," I cried; "now where are we going?"

"Some quiet place where I shall not be known."

"You really would not like the Cafe Royal?" I asked. "Nothing will happen toyou, and I think you would probably find that one or two people would wishyou luck. You have had a rare bad time, and there must be some people whounderstand what you have gone through and know that it is sufficient punishmentfor any sin."

"No, Frank," he persisted, "I cannot, I really cannot."

At length we decided on a restaurant in Great Portland Street. We drove thereand had a private room.

I had two purposes in me, springing from the one root, the intense desire tohelp him. I felt sure that if the case came up again for trial he would only beconvicted through what I may call good, honest testimony. The jury with theirEnglish prejudice; or rather I should say with their healthy English instinctswould not take the evidence of vile blackmailers against him; he could only beconvicted through untainted evidence such as the evidence of the chambermaidsat the Savoy Hotel, and their evidence was over two years old and was weak,inasmuch as the facts, if facts, were not acted upon by the management. Stilltheir testimony was very clear and very positive, and, taken together with thatof the blackmailers, sufficient to ensure conviction. After our lunch I laidthis view before Oscar. He agreed with me that it was probably thechambermaids' testimony which had weighed most heavily against him. Theirstatement and Shelley's had brought about the injurious tone in the Judge'ssumming up. The Judge himself had admitted as much.

"The chambermaids' evidence is wrong," Oscar declared. "They are mistaken,Frank. It was not me they spoke about at the Savoy Hotel. It was ----. I wasnever bold enough. I went to see ---- in the morning in his room."

"He wanted to; but I would not let him. I told him he must not. I must be trueto my friend. I could not let him."

"But he must," I said, "at any rate if he does not I will. I have three weeksand in that three weeks I am going to find the chambermaid. I am going to get aplan of your room and your friend's room, and I'm going to make her understandthat she was mistaken. She probably remembered you because of your size: shemistook you for the guilty person; everybody has always taken you for theringleader and not the follower."

"But what good is it, Frank, what good is it?" he cried. "Even if you convincedthe chambermaid and she retracted; there would still be Shelley, and the Judgelaid stress on Shelley's evidence as untainted."

"Shelley is an accomplice," I cried, "his testimony needs corroboration.You don't understand these legal quibbles; but there was not a particle ofcorroboration. Sir Edward Clarke should have had his testimony ruled out.'Twas that conspiracy charge," I cried, "which complicated the matter.Shelley's evidence, too, will be ruled out at the next trial, you'll see."

"Oh, Frank," he said, "you talk with passion and conviction, as if I wereinnocent."

"But you are innocent," I cried in amaze, "aren't you?"

"No, Frank," he said, "I thought you knew that all along."

I stared at him stupidly. "No," I said dully, "I did not know. I did notbelieve the accusation. I did not believe it for a moment."

I suppose the difference in my tone and manner struck him, for he said, timidlyputting out his hand:

"This will make a great difference to you, Frank?"

"No," I said, pulling myself together and taking his hand; and after a pause Iwent on: "No: curiously enough it has made no difference to me at all. I do notknow why; I suppose I have got more sympathy than morality in me. It hassurprised me, dumbfounded me. The thing has always seemed fantastic andincredible to me and now you make it exist for me; but it has no effect on myfriendship; none upon my resolve to help you. But I see that the battle isgoing to be infinitely harder than I imagined. In fact, now I don't think wehave a chance of winning a verdict. I came here hoping against fear that itcould be won, though I always felt that it would be better in the present stateof English feeling to go abroad and avoid the risk of a trial. Now there isno question: you would be insane, as Clarke said, to stay in England. Butwhy on earth did Alfred Douglas, knowing the truth, ever wish you to attackQueensberry?"

"He's very bold and obstinate, Frank," said Oscar weakly.

"Well, now I must play Crito," I resumed, smiling, "and take you away beforethe ship comes from Delos."

"Oh, Frank, that would be wonderful; but it's impossible, quite impossible. Ishould be arrested before I left London, and shamed again in public: they wouldboo at me and shout insults. . . . . Oh, it is impossible; I could not risk it."

"Nonsense," I replied, "I believe the authorities would be only too glad if youwent. I think Clarke's challenge to Gill was curiously ill-advised. He shouldhave let sleeping dogs lie. Combative Gill was certain to take up the gauntlet.If Clarke had lain low there might have been no second trial. But that can't behelped now. Don't believe that it's even difficult to get away; it's easy. Idon't propose to go by Folkestone or Dover."

"But, Frank, what about the people who have stood bail for me? I couldn't leavethem to suffer; they would lose their thousands."

"I shan't let them lose," I replied, "I am quite willing to take half on my ownshoulders at once and you can pay the other thousand or so within a very shorttime by writing a couple of plays. American papers would be only too glad topay you for an interview. The story of your escape would be worth a thousandpounds; they would give you almost any price for it.

"Leave everything to me, but in the meantime I want you to get out in the airas much as possible. You are not looking well; you are not yourself."

"That house is depressing, Frank. Willie makes such a merit of giving meshelter; he means well, I suppose; but it is all dreadful."

My notes of this talk finish in this way, but the conversation left on me a deepimpression of Oscar's extraordinary weakness or rather extraordinary softness ofnature backed up and redeemed by a certain magnanimity: he would not leave thefriends in the lurch who had gone bail for him; he would not give his friendaway even to save himself; but neither would he exert himself greatly to winfree. He was like a woman, I said to myself in wonder, and my pity for him grewkeener. He seemed mentally stunned by the sudden fall, by the discovery of howviolently men can hate. He had never seen the wolf in man before; the vilebrute instinct that preys upon the fallen. He had not believed that suchexultant savagery existed; it had never come within his ken; now it appalledhim. And so he stood there waiting for what might happen without courage to doanything but suffer. My heart ached with pity for him, and yet I felt a littleimpatient with him as well. Why give up like that? The eternal quarrel of thecombative nature with those who can't or won't fight.

Before getting into the carriage to drive back to his brother's, I ascertainedthat he did not need any money. He told me that he had sufficient even for theexpenses of a second trial: this surprised me greatly, for he was very carelessabout money; but I found out from him later that a very noble and culturedwoman, a friend of both of us, Miss S----, a Jewess by race tho' not byreligion, had written to him asking if she could help him financially, as shehad been distressed by hearing of his bankruptcy, and feared that he might be inneed. If that were the case she begged him to let her be his banker, in orderthat he might be properly defended. He wrote in reply, saying that he wasindeed in uttermost distress, that he wanted money, too, to help his mother ashe had always helped her, and that he supposed the expenses of the second trialwould be from L500 to L1,000. Thereupon Miss S---- sent him a cheque forL1,000, assuring him that it cost her little even in self-sacrifice, anddeclaring that it was only inadequate recognition of the pleasure she had hadthrough his delightful talks. Such actions are beyond praise; it is the perfumeof such sweet and noble human sympathy that makes this wild beasts' cage of aworld habitable for men.

Before parting we had agreed to meet a few nights afterwards at Mrs. Leverson's,where he had been invited to dinner, and where I also had been invited. By thattime, I thought to myself, all my preparations would be perfected.

Looking back now I see clearly that my affection for Oscar Wilde dates from hisconfession to me that afternoon. I had been a friend of his for years; but whathad bound us together had been purely intellectual, a community of literarytastes and ambitions. Now his trust in me and frankness had thrown down thebarrier between us; and made me conscious of the extraordinary femininity andgentle weakness of his nature, and, instead of condemning him as I have alwayscondemned that form of sexual indulgence, I felt only pity for him and a desireto protect and help him. From that day on our friendship became intimate: Ibegan to divine him; I knew now that his words would always be more generousand noble than his actions; knew too that I must take his charm of manner andvivacity of intercourse for real virtues, and indeed they were as real as thebeauty of flowers; and I was aware as by some sixth sense that, where his vanitywas concerned, I might expect any injustice from him. I was sure beforehand,however, that I should always forgive him, or rather that I should always acceptwhatever he did and love him for the charm and sweetness and intellect in himand hold myself more than recompensed for anything I might be able to do, by hisdelightful companionship.

CHAPTER XVI--ESCAPE REJECTED: THE SECOND TRIAL AND SENTENCE

In spite of the wit of the hostess and her exquisite cordiality, our dinner atMrs. Leverson's was hardly a success. Oscar was not himself; contrary to hiscustom he sat silent and downcast. From time to time he sighed heavily, and hisleaden dejection gradually infected all of us. I was not sorry, for I wantedto get him away early; by ten o'clock we had left the house and were in theCromwell Road. He preferred to walk: without his noticing it I turned upQueen's Gate towards the park. After walking for ten minutes I said to him:

"I want to speak to you seriously. Do you happen to know where Erith is?"

"No, Frank."

"It is a little landing place on the Thames," I went on, "not many miles away:it can be reached by a fast pair of horses and a brougham in a very short time.There at Erith is a steam yacht ready to start at a moment's notice; she hassteam up now, one hundred pounds pressure to the square inch in her boilers;her captain's waiting, her crew ready--a greyhound in leash; she can do fifteenknots an hour without being pressed. In one hour she would be free of theThames and on the high seas--(delightful phrase, eh?)--high seas indeed wherethere is freedom uncontrolled.

"If one started now one could breakfast in France, at Boulogne, let us say, orDieppe; one could lunch at St. Malo or St. Enogat or any place you like on thecoast of Normandy, and one could dine comfortably at the Sables d'Olonne, wherethere is not an Englishman to be found, and where sunshine reigns even in Mayfrom morning till night.

"What do you say, Oscar, will you come and try a homely French bourgeois dinnertomorrow evening at an inn I know almost at the water's edge? We could sit outon the little terrace and take our coffee in peace under the broad vine leaveswhile watching the silver pathway of the moon widen on the waters. We couldsmile at the miseries of London and its wolfish courts shivering in cold greymist hundreds of miles away. Does not the prospect tempt you?"

I spoke at leisure, tasting each delight, looking for his gladness.

"Oh, Frank," he cried, "how wonderful; but how impossible!"

"Impossible! don't be absurd," I retorted. "Do you see those lights yonder?"and I showed him some lights at the Park gate on the top of the hill in frontof us.

"Yes, Frank."

"That's a brougham," I said, "with a pair of fast horses. It will take us fora midnight visit to the steam yacht in double-quick time. There's a littlelibrary on board of French books and English; I've ordered supper in the cabin--lobster a l'Americaine and a bottle of Pommery. You've never seen the mouth ofthe Thames at night, have you? It's a scene from wonderland; houses like blobsof indigo fencing you in; ships drifting past like black ghosts in the mistyair, and the purple sky above never so dark as the river, the river with itsshifting lights of ruby and emerald and topaz, like an oily, opaque serpentgliding with a weird life of its own. . . . . Come; you must visit the yacht."

I turned to him, but he was no longer by my side. I gasped; what had happened?The mist must have hidden him; I ran back ten yards, and there he was leaningagainst the railing, hung up with his head on his arm shaking.

"What's the matter, Oscar?" I cried. "What on earth's the matter?"

"Oh, Frank, I can't go," he cried, "I can't. It would be too wonderful; butit's impossible. I should be seized by the police. You don't know the police."

"Nonsense," I cried, "the police can't stop you and not a man of them will seeyou from start to finish. Besides, I have loose money for any I do meet, andnone of them can resist a 'tip.' You will simply get out of the brougham andwalk fifty yards and you will be on the yacht and free. In fact, if you likeyou shall not come out of the brougham until the sailors surround you as a guardof honour. On board the yacht no one will touch you. No warrant runs there.Come on, man!"

"Oh, Frank," he groaned, "it's impossible!"

"What's impossible?" I insisted. "Let's consider everything anew at breakfastto-morrow morning in France. If you want to come back, there's nothing toprevent you. The yacht will take you back in twenty-four hours. You will nothave broken your bail; you'll have done nothing wrong. You can go to France,Germany or Siberia so long as you come back by the twentieth of May. Take itthat I offer you a holiday in France for ten days. Surely it is better to spenda week with me than in that dismal house in Oakley Street, where the very doorgives one the creeps."

"Oh, Frank, I'd love to," he groaned. "I see everything you say, but I can't.I dare not. I'm caught, Frank, in a trap, I can only wait for the end."

I began to get impatient; he was weaker than I had imagined, weaker a hundredtimes.

"Come for a trip, then, man," I cried, and I brought him within twenty yards ofthe carriage; but there he stopped as if he had made up his mind.

"No, no, I can't come. I could not go about in France feeling that thepoliceman's hand might fall on my shoulder at any moment. I could not livea life of fear and doubt: it would kill me in a month." His tone was decided.

"Why let your imagination run away with you?" I pleaded. "Do be reasonable foronce. Fear and doubt would soon be over. If the police don't get you in Francewithin a week after the date fixed for the trial, you need have no further fear,for they won't get you at all: they don't want you. You're making mountains outof molehills with nervous fancies."

"I should be arrested."

"Nonsense," I replied, "who would arrest you? No one has the right. You areout on bail: your bail answers for you till the 20th. Money talks, man;Englishmen always listen to money. It'll do you good with the public and thejury to come back from France to stand your trial. Do come," and I took himby the arm; but he would not move. To my astonishment he faced me and said:

"And my sureties?"

"We'll pay 'em," I replied, "both of 'em, if you break your bail. Come,"but he would not.

"Frank, if I were not in Oakley Street to-night Willie would tell the police."

"Your brother?" I cried.

"Yes," he said, "Willie."

"Good God!" I exclaimed; "but let him tell. I have not mentioned Erith or thesteam yacht to a soul. It's the last place in the world the police wouldsuspect and before he talks we shall be out of reach. Besides they cannot doanything; you are doing nothing wrong. Please trust me, you do nothingquestionable even till you omit to enter the Old Bailey on the 20th of May."

"Do you mean it really?" I asked. "Do you mean you will not come and spenda week yachting with me?"

"I cannot."

I drew him a few paces nearer the carriage: something of desolation and despairin his voice touched me: I looked at him. Tears were pouring down his face;he was the picture of misery, yet I could not move him.

"Come into the carriage," I said, hoping that the swift wind in his face wouldfreshen him up, give him a moment's taste of the joy of living and sharpen thedesire of freedom.

"Yes, Frank," he said, "if you will take me to Oakley Street."

"I would as soon take you to prison," I replied; "but as you wish."

The next moment we had got in and were swinging down Queen's Gate. The mistseemed to lend keenness to the air. At the bottom of Queen's Gate the coachmanswept of himself to the left into the Cromwell Road; Oscar seemed to wake out ofhis stupor.

"No, Frank," he cried, "no, no," and he fumbled at the handle of the door, "Imust get out; I will not go. I will not go."

"Sit still," I said in despair, "I'll tell the coachman," and I put my head outof the window and cried: "Oakley Street, Oakley Street, Chelsea, Robert."

I do not think I spoke again till we got to Oakley Street. I was consumed withrage and contemptuous impatience. I had done the best I knew and had failed.Why? I had no idea. I have never known why he refused to come. I don't thinkhe knew himself. Such resignation I had never dreamt of. It was utterly newto me. I used to think of resignation in a vague way as of something ratherbeautiful; ever since, I have thought of it with impatience: resignation is thecourage of the irresolute. Oscar's obstinacy was the obverse of his weakness.It is astonishing how inertia rules some natures. The attraction of waiting anddoing nothing is intense for those who live in thought and detest action. As weturned into Oakley Street, Oscar said to me:

"You are not angry with me, Frank?" and he put out his hand.

"No, no," I said, "why should I be angry? You are the master of your fate.I can only offer advice."

"Do come and see me soon," he pleaded.

"My bolt is shot," I replied; "but I'll come in two or three days' time, assoon as I have anything of importance to say. . . . . Don't forget, Oscar, theyacht is there and will be there waiting until the 20th; the yacht will alwaysbe ready and the brougham."

"Good night, Frank," he said, "good night, and thank you."

He got out and went into the house, the gloomy sordid house where the brotherlived who would sell his blood for a price!

. . . . . . .

Three or four days later we met again, but to my amaze Oscar had not changedhis mind. To talk of him as cast down is the precise truth; he seemed to me asone who had fallen from a great height and lay half conscious, stunned on theground. The moment you moved him, even to raise his head, it gave him pain andhe cried out to be left alone. There he lay prone, and no one could help him.It was painful to witness his dumb misery: his mind even, his sunny brightintelligence, seemed to have deserted him.

Once again he came out with me to lunch. Afterwards we drove through Regent'sPark as the quietest way to Hampstead and had a talk. The air and swift motiondid him good. The beauty of the view from the heath seemed to revive him.I tried to cheer him up.

"You must know," I said, "that you can win if you want to. You can not onlybring the jury to doubt, but you can make the judge doubt as well. I wasconvinced of your innocence in spite of all the witnesses, and I knew moreabout you than they did. In the trial before Mr. Justice Charles, the thingthat saved you was that you spoke of the love of David and Jonathan and thesweet affection which the common world is determined not to understand. Thereis another point against you which you have not touched on yet: Gill asked youwhat you had in common with those serving-men and stable boys. You have notexplained that. You have explained that you love youth, the brightness and thegaiety of it, but you have not explained what seems inexplicable to most men,that you should go about with servants and strappers."

"Difficult to explain, Frank, isn't it, without the truth?" Evidently his mindwas not working.

"No," I replied, "easy, simple. Think of Shakespeare. How did he know Dogberryand Pistol, Bardolph and Doll Tearsheet? He must have gone about with them.You don't go about with public school boys of your own class, for you know them;you have nothing to learn from them: they can teach you nothing. But the stableboy and servant you cannot sketch in your plays without knowing him, and youcan't know him without getting on his level, and letting him call you 'Oscar'and calling him 'Charlie.' If you rub this in, the judge will see that he isface to face with the artist in you and will admit at least that yourexplanation is plausible. He will hesitate to condemn you, and once hehesitates you'll win.

"You fought badly because you did not show your own nature sufficiently; you didnot use your brains in the witness box and alas--" I did not continue; the truthwas I was filled with fear; for I suddenly realised that he had shown morecourage and self-possession in the Queensberry trial than in the trial beforeMr. Justice Charles when so much more was at stake; and I felt that in the nexttrial he would be more depressed still, and less inclined to take the initiativethan ever. I had already learned too that I could not help him; that he wouldnot be lifted out of that "sweet way of despair," which so attracts the artistspirit. But still I would do my best.

"Do you understand?" I asked.

"Of course, Frank, of course, but you have no conception how weary I am of thewhole thing, of the shame and the struggling and the hatred. To see thosepeople coming into the box one after the other to witness against me makes mesick. The self-satisfied grin of the barristers, the pompous foolish judgewith his thin lips and cunning eyes and hard jaw. Oh, it's terrible. I feelinclined to stretch out my hands and cry to them, 'Do what you will with me, inGod's name, only do it quickly; cannot you see that I am worn out? If hatredgives you pleasure, indulge it.' They worry one, Frank, with ravening jaws,as dogs worry a rabbit. Yet they call themselves men. It is appalling."

The day was dying, the western sky all draped with crimson, saffron and rosycurtains: a slight mist over London, purple on the horizon, closer, a mere washof blue; here and there steeples pierced the thin veil like fingers pointingupward. On the left the dome of St. Paul's hung like a grey bubble over thecity; on the right the twin towers of Westminster with the river and bridgewhich Wordsworth sang. Peace and beauty brooding everywhere, and down therelost in the mist the "rat pit" that men call the Courts of Justice. There theyjudge their fellows, mistaking indifference for impartiality, as if anyone couldjudge his fellowman without love, and even with love how far short we all comeof that perfect sympathy which is above forgiveness and takes delight insuccouring the weak, comforting the broken-hearted.

. . . . . . .

The days went swiftly by and my powerlessness to influence him filled me withself-contempt. Of course, I said to myself, if I knew him better I should beable to help him. Would vanity do anything? It was his mainspring; I could buttry. He might be led by the hope of making Englishmen talk of him again, talkof him as one who had dared to escape; wonder what he would do next. I wouldtry, and I did try. But his dejection foiled me: his dislike of the struggleseemed to grow from day to day.

He would scarcely listen to me. He was counting the days to the trial: willingto accept an adverse decision; even punishment and misery and shame seemedbetter than doubt and waiting. He surprised me by saying:

"A year, Frank, they may give me a year? half the possible sentence: the middlecourse, that English Judges always take: the sort of compromise they thinksafe?" and his eyes searched my face for agreement.

I felt no such confidence in English Judges; their compromises are usuallybargainings; when they get hold of an artist they give rein to their intuitivefear and hate.

But I would not discourage him. I repeated:

"You can win, Oscar, if you like:--" my litany to him. His wan dejected smilebrought tears to my eyes.

. . . . . . .

"Don't you want to make them all speak of you and wonder at you again? If youwere in France, everyone would be asking: will he come back or disappearaltogether? or will he manifest himself henceforth in some new comedies, morejoyous and pagan than ever?"

I might as well have talked to the dead: he seemed numbed, hypnotised withdespair. The punishment had already been greater than he could bear. I beganto fear that prison, if he were condemned to it, would rob him of his reason;I sometimes feared that his mind was already giving way, so profound was hisdepression, so hopeless his despair.

. . . . . . .

The trial opened before Mr. Justice Wills on the 21st of May, 1895. TheTreasury had sent Sir Frank Lockwood, Q.C., M.P., to lead Mr. C. F. Gill,Mr. Horace Avory, and Mr. Sutton. Oscar was represented by the same counselas on the previous occasion.

The whole trial to me was a nightmare, and it was characterised from the verybeginning by atrocious prejudice and injustice. The High Priests of Law wereweary of being balked; eager to make an end. As soon as the Judge took hisseat, Sir Edward Clarke applied that the defendants should be tried separately.As they had already been acquitted on the charge of conspiracy, there was noreason why they should be tried together.

The Judge called on the Solicitor-General to answer the application.

The Solicitor-General had nothing to say, but thought it was in the interestsof the defendants to be tried together; for, in case they were tried separately,it would be necessary to take the defendant Taylor first.

Sir Edward Clarke tore this pretext to pieces, and Mr. Justice Wills brought thematter to a conclusion by saying that he was in possession of all the evidencethat had been taken at the previous trials, and his opinion was that the twodefendants should be tried separately.

Sir Edward Clarke then applied that the case of Mr. Wilde should be taken firstas his name stood first on the indictment, and as the first count was directedagainst him and had nothing to do with Taylor. . . . . "There are reasonspresent, I am sure, too, in your Lordship's mind, why Wilde should not be triedimmediately after the other defendant."

Mr. Justice Wills remarked, with seeming indifference, "It ought not to make theleast difference, Sir Edward. I am sure I and the jury will do our best to takecare that the last trial has no influence at all on the present."

Sir Edward Clarke stuck to his point. He urged respectfully that as Mr. Wilde'sname stood first on the indictment his case should be taken first.

Mr. Justice Wills said he could not interfere with the discretion of theprosecution, nor vary the ordinary procedure. Justice and fair play on the oneside and precedent on the other: justice was waved out of court with sereneindifference. Thereupon Sir Edward Clarke pressed that the trial of Mr. OscarWilde should stand over till the next sessions. But again Mr. Justice Willsrefused. Precedent was silent now but prejudice was strong as ever.

The case against Taylor went on the whole day and was resumed next morning.Taylor went into the box and denied all the charges. The Judge summed up deadagainst him, and at 3.30 the jury retired to consider their verdict: in forty-five minutes they came into court again with a question which was significant.In answer to the judge the foreman stated that "they had agreed that Taylorhad introduced Parker to Wilde, but they were not satisfied with Wilde's guiltin the matter."

Mr. Justice Wills: "Were you agreed as to the charge on the other counts?"

Foreman: "Yes, my Lord."

Mr. Justice Wills: "Well, possibly it would be as well to take your verdictupon the other counts."

Through the foreman the jury accordingly intimated that they found Taylor guiltywith regard to Charles and William Parker.

In answer to his Lordship, Sir F. Lockwood said he would take the verdict givenby the jury of "guilty" upon the two counts.

A formal verdict having been entered, the judge ordered the prisoner to standdown, postponing sentence. Did he postpone the sentence in order not tofrighten the next jury by the severity of it? Other reason I could find none.

Sir Edward Clarke then got up and said that as it was getting rather late,perhaps after the second jury had disagreed as to Mr. Wilde's guilt--

"You can hardly call it a disagreement, Sir Edward," though what else he couldcall it, I was at a loss to imagine.

He then adjourned the case against Oscar Wilde till the next day, when adifferent jury would be impanelled. But whatever jury might be called theywould certainly hear that their forerunners had found Taylor guilty and theywould know that every London paper without exception had approved the finding.What a fair chance to give Wilde! It was like trying an Irish Secretary beforea jury of Fenians.

The next morning, May 23d, Oscar Wilde appeared in the dock. The Solicitor-General opened the case, and then called his witnesses. One of the first wasEdward Shelley, who in cross-examination admitted that he had been mentally illwhen he wrote Mr. Wilde those letters which had been put in evidence. He was"made nervous from over-study," he said.

Alfred Wood admitted that he had had money given him quite recently, practicallyblackmailing money. He was as venomous as possible. "When he went to America,"he said, "he told Wilde that he wanted to get away from mixing with him (Wilde)and Douglas."

Charlie Parker next repeated his disgusting testimony with ineffable impudenceand a certain exultation. Bestial ignominy could go no lower; he admittedthat since the former trial he had been kept at the expense of the prosecution.After this confession the case was adjourned and we came out of court.

When I reached Fleet Street I was astonished to hear that there had been a rowthat same afternoon in Piccadilly between Lord Douglas of Hawick and his father,the Marquis of Queensberry. Lord Queensberry, it appears, had been writingdisgusting letters about the Wilde case to Lord Douglas's wife. Meeting himin Piccadilly Percy Douglas stopped him and asked him to cease writing obsceneletters to his wife. The Marquis said he would not and the father and son cameto blows. Queensberry it seems was exasperated by the fact that Douglas ofHawick was one of those who had gone bail for Oscar Wilde. One of the telegramswhich the Marquis of Queensberry had sent to Lady Douglas I must put in just toshow the insane nature of the man who could exult in a trial which was damningthe reputation of his own son. The letter was manifestly written after theresult of the Taylor trial:

Must congratulate on verdict, cannot on Percy's appearance. Looks like adug up corpse. Fear too much madness of kissing. Taylor guilty. Wilde'sturn tomorrow.

Queensberry.

In examination before the magistrate, Mr. Hannay, it was stated that LordQueensberry had been sending similar letters to Lady Douglas "full of themost disgusting charges against Lord Douglas, his wife, and Lord Queensberry'sdivorced wife and her family." But Mr. Hannay thought all this provocation wasof no importance and bound over both father and son to keep the peace--anindefensible decision, a decision only to be explained by the sympathyeverywhere shown to Queensberry because of his victory over Wilde, otherwisesurely any honest magistrate would have condemned the father who sent obsceneletters to his son's wife--a lady above reproach. These vile letters and themagistrate's bias, seemed to me to add the final touch of the grotesque to thehorrible vileness of the trial. It was all worthy of the seventh circle ofDante, but Dante had never imagined such a father and such judges!

. . . . . . .

Next morning Oscar Wilde was again put in the dock. The evidence of theQueensberry trial was read and therewith the case was closed for the Crown.

Sir Edward Clarke rose and submitted that there was no case to go to the jury onthe general counts. After a long legal argument for and against, Mr. JusticeWills said that he would reserve the question for the Court of Appeal. The viewhe took was that "the evidence was of the slenderest kind"; but he thought theresponsibility must be left with the jury. To this judge "the slenderest kind"of evidence was worthful so long as it told against the accused.

Sir Edward Clarke then argued that the cases of Shelley, Parker, and Wood failedon the ground of the absence of corroboration. Mr. Justice Wills admitted thatShelley showed "a peculiar exaltation" of mind; there was, too, mentalderangement in his family, and worst of all there was no corroboration of hisstatements. Accordingly, in spite of the arguments of the Solicitor-General,Shelley's evidence was cut out. But Shelley's evidence had already been taken,had already prejudiced the jury. Indeed, it had been the evidence which hadinfluenced Mr. Justice Charles in the previous trial to sum up dead against thedefendant: Mr. Justice Charles called Shelley "the only serious witness."

Now it appeared that Shelley's evidence should never have been taken at all,that the jury ought never to have heard Shelley's testimony or the Judge'sacceptance of it!

. . . . . . .

When the court opened next morning I knew that the whole case depended on OscarWilde, and the showing he would make in the box, but alas! he was broken andnumbed. He was not a fighter, and the length of this contest might have wearieda combative nature. The Solicitor-General began by examining him on his lettersto Lord Alfred Douglas and we had the "prose poem" again and the rest of theineffable nonsensical prejudice of the middle-class mind against passionatesentiment. It came out in evidence that Lord Alfred Douglas was now in Calais.His hatred of his father was the "causa causans" of the whole case; he hadpushed Oscar into the fight and Oscar, still intent on shielding him, declaredthat he had asked him to go abroad.

Sir Edward Clarke again did his poor best. He pointed out that the trial restedon the evidence of mere blackmailers. He would not quarrel with that anddiscuss it, but it was impossible not to see that if blackmailers were to belistened to and believed, their profession might speedily become a more deadlymischief and danger to society than it had ever been.

The speech was a weak one; but the people in court cheered Sir Edward Clarke;the cheers were immediately suppressed by the Judge.

The Solicitor-General took up the rest of the day with a rancorous reply. SirEdward Clarke even had to remind him that law officers of the Crown should tryto be impartial. One instance of his prejudice may be given. Examining Oscaras to his letters to Lord Alfred Douglas, Sir Frank Lockwood wanted to knowwhether he thought them "decent"?

The witness replied, "Yes."

"Do you know the meaning of the word, sir?" was this gentleman's retort.

I went out of the court feeling certain that the case was lost. Oscar had notshown himself at all; he had not even spoken with the vigour he had used at theQueensberry trial. He seemed too despairing to strike a blow.

The summing up of the Judge on May 25th was perversely stupid and malevolent.He began by declaring that he was "absolutely impartial," though his view of thefacts had to be corrected again and again by Sir Edward Clarke: he went on toregret that the charge of conspiracy should have been introduced, as it had tobe abandoned. He then pointed out that he could not give a colourless summingup, which was "of no use to anybody." His intelligence can be judged from onecrucial point: he fastened on the fact that Oscar had burnt the letters whichhe bought from Wood, which he said were of no importance, except that theyconcerned third parties. The Judge had persuaded himself that the letters wereindescribably bad, forgetting apparently that Wood or his associates hadselected and retained the very worst of them for purposes of blackmail and thatthis Judge himself, after reading it, couldn't attribute any weight to it; stillhe insisted that burning the letters was an act of madness; whereas it seemed toeveryone of the slightest imagination the most natural thing in the world for aninnocent man to do. At the time Oscar burnt the letters he had no idea that hewould ever be on trial. His letters had been misunderstood and the worst ofthem was being used against him, and when he got the others he naturally threwthem into the fire. The Judge held that it was madness, and built upon thisinference a pyramid of guilt. "Nothing said by Wood should be believed, as hebelongs to the vilest class of criminals; the strength of the accusation dependssolely upon the character of the original introduction of Wood to Wilde asillustrated and fortified by the story with regard to the letters and theirburning."

A pyramid of guilt carefully balanced on its apex! If the foolish Judge had onlyread his Shakespeare! What does Henry VI say:

Proceed no straiter 'gainst our uncle GloucesterThan from true evidence of good esteemHe be approved in practice culpable.

There was no "true evidence of good esteem" against Wilde, but the Judge turneda harmless action into a confession of guilt.

Then came an interruption which threw light on the English conception ofjustice. The foreman of the jury wanted to know, in view of the intimaterelations between Lord Alfred Douglas and the defendant, whether a warrantagainst Lord Alfred Douglas was ever issued.

Mr. Justice Wills: "I should say not; we have never heard of it."

Foreman: "Or ever contemplated?"

Mr. Justice Wills: "That I cannot say, nor can we discuss it. The issue of sucha warrant would not depend upon the testimony of the parties, but whether therewas evidence of such act. Letters pointing to such relations would not besufficient. Lord Alfred Douglas was not called, and you can give what weightyou like to that."

Foreman: "If we are to deduce any guilt from these letters, it would applyequally to Lord Alfred Douglas."

Mr. Justice Wills concurred in that view, but after all he thought it hadnothing to do with the present trial, which was the guilt of the accused.

The jury retired to consider their verdict at half past three. After beingabsent two hours they returned to know whether there was any evidence ofCharles Parker having slept at St. James's Place.

His Lordship replied, "No."

The jury shortly afterwards returned again with the verdict of "Guilty" on allthe counts.

It may be worth while to note again that the Judge himself admitted that theevidence on some of the counts was of "the slenderest kind"; but, when backedby his prejudiced summing up, it was more than sufficient for the jury.

Sir Edward Clarke pleaded that sentence should be postponed till the nextsessions, when the legal argument would be heard.

Mr. Justice Wills would not be balked: sentence, he thought, should be givenimmediately. Then, addressing the prisoners, he said, and again I give hisexact words, lest I should do him wrong:

"Oscar Wilde and Alfred Taylor, the crime of which you have been convicted is sobad that one has to put stern restraint upon one's self to prevent one's selffrom describing in language which I would rather not use the sentiments whichmust rise to the breast of every man of honour who has heard the details ofthese two terrible trials.

"That the jury have arrived at a correct verdict in this case I cannot persuademyself to entertain the shadow of a doubt; and I hope, at all events, that thosewho sometimes imagine that a Judge is half-hearted in the cause of decency andmorality because he takes care no prejudice shall enter into the case may seethat that is consistent at least with the utmost sense of indignation at thehorrible charges brought home to both of you.

"It is no use for me to address you. People who can do these things must bedead to all sense of shame, and one cannot hope to produce any effect upon them.It is the worst case I have ever tried. . . . . That you, Wilde, have been thecentre of a circle of extensive corruption of the most hideous kind among youngmen it is impossible to doubt.

"I shall under such circumstances be expected to pass the severest sentencethat the law allows. In my judgment it is totally inadequate for such a caseas this.

"The sentence of the court is that each of you be imprisoned and kept to hardlabour for two years."

The sentence hushed the court in shocked surprise.

Wilde rose and cried, "Can I say anything, my lord?"

Mr. Justice Wills waved his hand deprecatingly amid cries of "Shame" and hissesfrom the public gallery; some of the cries and hisses were certainly addressedto the Judge and well deserved. What did he mean by saying that Oscar was a"centre of extensive corruption of the most hideous kind"? No evidence of thishad been brought forward by the prosecution. It was not even alleged that asingle innocent person had been corrupted. The accusation was invented by this"absolutely impartial" Judge to justify his atrocious cruelty. The unmeritedinsults and appalling sentence would have disgraced the worst Judge of theInquisition.

Mr. Justice Wills evidently suffered from the peculiar "exaltation" of mindwhich he had recognised in Shelley. This peculiarity is shared in a lesserdegree by several other Judges on the English bench in all matters of sexualmorality. What distinguished Mr. Justice Wills was that he was proud of hisprejudice and eager to act on it. He evidently did not know, or did not care,that the sentence which he had given, declaring it was "totally inadequate,"had been condemned by a Royal Commission as "inhuman." He would willinglyhave pushed "inhumanity" to savagery, out of sheer bewigged stupidity, andthat he was probably well-meaning only intensified the revolt one felt at suchbrainless malevolence.

The bitterest words in Dante are not bitter enough to render my feeling:

"Non ragioniam di lor ma guarda e passa."

The whole scene had sickened me. Hatred masquerading as justice, strikingvindictively and adding insult to injury. The vile picture had its fit settingoutside. We had not left the court when the cheering broke out in the streets,and when we came outside there were troops of the lowest women of the towndancing together and kicking up their legs in hideous abandonment, while thesurrounding crowd of policemen and spectators guffawed with delight. As Iturned away from the exhibition, as obscene and soul-defiling as anythingwitnessed in the madness of the French revolution, I caught a glimpse of Woodand the Parkers getting into a cab, laughing and leering.

These were the venal creatures Oscar Wilde was punished for having corrupted!